


Persuasion

by dioscureantwins



Series: After the Fall [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-12
Updated: 2012-02-12
Packaged: 2017-11-03 10:15:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/380278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dioscureantwins/pseuds/dioscureantwins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>even in death Sherlock can be very persuasive</p>
            </blockquote>





	Persuasion

Beta: the masterful [](http://lady-t-220.livejournal.com/profile)[**lady_t_220**](http://lady-t-220.livejournal.com/). 

Disclaimer: all characters belong to the BBC and Steve Moffat and Mark Gatiss. My profit is the joy I had in writing. Yours, I hope, the joy in reading.

He checks his watch for what must be the 10th time in as many minutes. Where IS John? The mild annoyance he felt after waiting for 2 minutes has steadily morphed into a state of alarm. Here he is, hiding behind this bloody tree, not daring to move for fear of being spotted and John is nowhere in sight. He checks again; 10 minutes and 45 seconds. He's seriously contemplating contacting Mycroft and he's already composing the text on his phone when he hears Mrs. Hudson’s voice. She sounds quite teary.

He breathes a deep sigh of relief. Understanding rushes through him. The delay must have been caused by the last nerve-steadying cup of tea and biscuit pressed upon John before they left. He would have protested, tea the last thing on his mind but he would have acquiesced nevertheless because he is John and he hates hurting people. Sherlock can imagine Mrs. Hudson rambling on and on, "oh yes dear, any minute right now. You just have your cuppa, there’s a good lad" and "oh, where’s my handbag? I'm sure I saw it on the side just now. You know love, the older one gets, the more one forgets. Or could it be those herbal soothers, you know, for my hip, but sometimes I wonder …"

Sherlock seriously misses having Mrs. Hudson around but to be completely honest (and when is he ever not?) she could be a chattering nuisance sometimes. He chuckles, remembering all the unpleasant surprises he continually treated her to; the thumbs in the fridge, the light deprivation experiment that required him to paint the windows in his bedroom, the scratches on her furniture... and then there was the day he had cut up his duvet as a quick supply of the feathers he absolutely needed to prove his theory about the aviary murder case. Yes, she must have found him a thorough nuisance most of the time. Though mercifully at least not a chatty one.

Now both John and Mrs. Hudson are standing by his grave. Mrs. Hudson has deposited a bunch of flowers in front of it, a ridiculous gesture as it would be impossible for him to see them (he's lying down there in the ground, after all.) He has never cared one jolt for flowers in his life and they will only wilt, unless they get drenched and sodden by the rain first. John and Mrs. Hudson are quietly talking together and he strains his ears to hear them. Mrs. Hudson’s voice is starting to rise; she's complaining about the mess, good for her, and then he hears John’s quiet voice.

"I can’t go back to the flat again … not at the moment."

The meaning of the words hits him like a lightning bolt. John is no longer living at Baker Street. Another blow dealt.

He wants to run and shake some sense into his friend. How can he have decided to leave 221b? Doesn't he understand he needs to go on living there? Go on in his set ways: Rise in the morning, boil the kettle that doesn't have to be checked before every use anymore, brew himself a cup of tea in the mug that doesn't have to be checked, put unchecked bread in the unchecked toaster and take unchecked jam out of the unchecked fridge. After that it's the clinic. He works three days a week and Sherlock begrudged him every single one of them. After that he has always got some medical journal to read, or else one of those boring spy novels. He’s got enough James Bond DVD's to last him a lifetime, surely. Doesn't he see that he must be there at Baker Street for Sherlock to return to in all his splendor? Because he is going to return. He is going to unravel the network Moriarty controlled and he will collect enough evidence to clear his name. He's already made a start, making use of all the information technology and technical gadgets Mycroft has at easy disposal, gathering whatever information he can find. The only time he's allowed himself to pause is the stolen hour every week that he needs to keep an eye on John, while he's still around to enjoy the view.

He had kept watch over the graveyard for the first few weeks after his faked death in order to establish John's visiting pattern. Because John is so set in his orderly – military – ways there is no chance of him not visiting Sherlock's grave on a regular basis. The second visit had proven him right. John's visiting hour was Friday, 3pm. Lestrade had popped up entirely at random, Mrs. Hudson likewise. Molly had visited once, the day after she had been invited over to have dinner with Mycroft and Sherlock. It had led him to vaguely wonder whether she actually preferred him being dead.

He has been fortifying himself for the task ahead by feasting on the sight of John every week. He has deliberately abstained from taking an accidental stroll through Baker Street and told Mycroft he doesn’t want to watch the footage of the CCTV-cameras, but all this time he has been secure in the knowledge that John is keeping sentinel at Baker Street.

Mrs. Hudson has trailed off and John is taking forever at his graveside. Sherlock keeps fighting back the tears that have accumulated behind his eyes, threatening to spill over in a steady trickle from the flooded bathtub that his head has become since the moment John spoke his fatal words. His lungs heave, deep breaths to fight the panic that's starting to build in his stomach. That burning sensation he remembers so well, standing on Bart's rooftop … Oh, John.

At long last John says his farewells and leaves. Sherlock feels his knees buckling beneath him from exposure and exhaustion. He stays put behind his tree for five more minutes, allowing John and Mrs. Hudson enough time to board the taxi that is to convey them to wherever, then makes his way back to the side entrance and into the sleek black car that's waiting for him. Mycroft's minion doesn’t have to be instructed where to take him and for once he's glad as he is incapable of speech right now.

Mycroft's front door manifests itself as a gigantic obstacle as his trembling fingers keep misdirecting the keys, finally dropping them. He resorts to ringing the bell, pulling and pulling like a drowning victim about to go under, about to be smothered by the tears that keep welling up. After an eternity Mycroft's manservant opens the door, his mouth open for a remark but Sherlock bodily shoves the man aside. He runs up the stairs taking three steps at a time, slams the door of his room shut, crashes down on the bed and squeezes his eyes tight shut against the emotions threatening to spill from his traitorous body.

The grief washes over him in huge waves and he doesn't struggle. He lets himself be pulled under by the undertow, to be sucked ever deeper into a pit of depression and distress.

***

The light in the room is starting to take on an orange hue when Mycroft walks into his room. He is still sniffling, cheeks wet and eyes raw, a damp streak on the pillow as undignified evidence that his nose has been running.

At Mycroft's entrance he bolts up. "Most people knock," he growls. Mycroft turns his head, looks at the door, then stares down on him. "I did knock, he says, "three times to be precise. But you were obviously intent on making such a racket you managed to shut yourself off from any polite attempts at approaching you. Now, what is it?" The last sentence is less a question and more a quiet sort of threat.

Sherlock sets his jaw, face grim. "John has left Baker Street," he says. Mycrofts reaction reveals nothing and a sudden tug of insight makes Sherlock's brows draw together in darkening fury. ''Though you knew that already, didn't you? Probably because you arranged it. How very thoughtful of you, Mycroft, to slink in there behind my back, like the pernicious, fat snake that you are."

Mycroft stands placidly contemplating him. "I do wonder," he says in a voice that’s cold enough to make hell freeze over, "if we should ascribe the degradation of your acting abilities to the good doctor's influence or some other external force. A most unfortunate development certainly, considering the assignment that awaits you." The tone of his voice drops a further few degrees. "Sherlock Holmes, I command you to stop delivering this fallacious impersonation of Sarah Bernhardt in her declining years and endeavour to behave like a grown-up . Get your act together … NOW!"

"Sod off Mycroft," Sherlock spits. "Go start a war will you and leave me alone!"

Mycroft pulls his phone out of his waistcoat pocket and does some scrolling. "How very unfortunate for you, little brother. Much as I do love to initiate these random minor hostilities it seems the Friday evening traffic is still quite heavy. If I remember correctly you advised me never to initiate military conflict before tea-time so I am afraid I can't heed your counsel at this particular moment. But to spend our time together profitably perhaps you could enlighten me as to why the removal of Doctor Watson from your flat has had such a detrimental effect upon you?"

"I need him there," Sherlock growls. "I need to know he's – "

He breaks off, swinging his legs over the edge of bed to sit with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. When he speaks again his voice is tight and controlled.

"I think better with John at my side. If he leaves Baker Street he’s not just leaving the flat. It’s more than bricks and mortar; it's as if he's leaving me as well." He clutches tightly at his hair, pain etched in sharp relief across his features. "I have to know I can go back when this is over. I have to know he hasn't forgotten me, and that he's going to be there however long it takes. If he is still at Baker Street, then he is still _at my side_."

Mycroft sighs and sinks down on the chair in front of the writing desk. "I didn't encourage him and before you start expostulating more grievances I assure you I didn't give him the idea either. His therapist did. John told me during one of my little visits she had suggested he consider moving out as a way of moving on, thus proving himself capable of transcending his grief. I pondered the advice for a while and upon my next visit agreed that a change might be good for him." Mycroft watches Sherlock silently for a moment before continuing. "John's grief is most difficult to have to contemplate, Sherlock. The little entertainment you have been bestowing upon me and my household just now is but a mere shadow of the obvious hurt John is enduring every day. Seeing as you do ultimately have his best interests at heart I did what I thought best and complied with his wishes. Alas, as ever you give your ego-centrism free rein and haven't credited John's emotions for one second. Can you tell me why this is not even a surprise to me? You're dead, Sherlock. Dead to the world and dead to John Watson. So far he has behaved with nothing but the utmost dignity, in a manner you couldn't even begin to fathom. Let him lay his ghosts to rest. Allow him to lay your ghost to rest."

Sherlock raises his head to stare at his brother.

"I understand perfectly, Mycroft," he snarls. "Despite what you seem to think, I am not entirely devoid of feeling. Much as you might like to portray me to others as a sociopath it doesn't instantly make it true. I need John. I … I – " He lets out a yell of frustration. "Why can't you see it? I can't think properly if John is not there. And if I can't think properly, how am I ever going to unravel Moriarty's network? If I can't solve it then John is never going to be safe. I need evidence. I need to prove to the world that they were all wrong. I am doing this for John. I am doing this so I can return to Baker Street to make John happy again. Can’t you see that this is all for his benefit?"

The expression on Mycroft's face has turned to one of carefully guarded astonishment and he contemplates Sherlock's rambled explanation for a moment before replying.

"You do have the strangest ways of caring about the people you proclaim to love," he says, thoughtfully. "I do not doubt that in your own disturbed way you are actually heeding John's feelings. But it does not change how things stand. You should have taken all these arguments into consideration before you decided to stage your dramatic farewell to the world. John is his own man and, regardless of how well-intended, your death has hurt him. If he chooses to quit Baker Street, that's his decision to make and you will have to live with it. As you sow, so shall you reap. You have resigned your position in his life and you must let him proceed how he thinks best. To force him to grieve your memory without hope of release is cruel, Sherlock. Even for you." He rises. "Dinner will be served in one hour. This evening I honestly don't care whether you're attending or not. Tomorrow afternoon we will go to my office to acquaint ourselves with the usage of the scrambled phones."

He walks to the door, marking his exit with a deliberate thud.

Sherlock sighs, lies down again and steeples his fingers in front of his lips. He does see the power of Mycroft's argument, although he'd rather bite off his own tongue than admit it, but he simply can't abide with the idea of John not continuing his life at 221b. At least if he really were dead he wouldn't have to know about it. He definitely doesn't want John to feel hurt, he feels terrible for throwing John into this situation in the first place, but he had convinced himself John would stay put. He'd mistakenly believed John would find the atmosphere of the flat, all the little mementos of Sherlock having lived there, soothing to his nerves; a balm to ease the mental suffering.

Of course he needed some of his things and so had sent Mycroft with a shopping list, entreating him to make sure beforehand John wouldn't be at home to be witness to the collection. His stack of Moleskine notebooks of course. Two of his suits – the one he was wearing when he first encountered John and the one he wore the night John shot the cabbie – and a few shirts. Not the black one, although that has been his favourite since John remarked he liked it. Sherlock had thought that one should be left, in case John wanted to touch it every once in a while and grew suspicious once he found it missing. He'd requested his computer hard drive though, and the book on toxic poisons along with one of John's not-recently-laundered jumpers.

He gropes under the bed for the jumper, the oatmeal one, its texture ensuring a heady accumulation of John smells that still haven't dissipated after all Sherlock's handling. He drapes it over his face and slowly breathes in through the fabric, reveling in the scent of John.

Mycroft's revelations have shaken him. He thoroughly blames himself for underestimating the depth of John's grief. Still, he doesn't see why that should induce John to go and talk to that stupid therapist. Both he and Mycroft, surely the two most intelligent men the British Isles have on offer, if not the whole planet, had proven her to be wrong about every aspect of John's personality within mere hours of their acquaintance. There is no rationality to the decision to resume his sessions with Ella, and if Sherlock had known he would have taken steps to prevent it. It is his own mistake however, and one he must set right.

He drapes the jumper over his shoulders for comfort as he rises, restlessly pacing the room, index fingers busily tapping his lips. He ends up in front of the desk, his gaze landing on the stack of notebooks. He has filled part of his time most profitably during the past few weeks by steadily working his way through them, pondering over notes he randomly jotted down. There are so many things which upon reconsideration reveal so much about the web Moriarty had been weaving.

He's always carried notebooks. They're an essential tool to enter test results, observations, deductions and conclusions. John has seen him handling the books countless times and, as he realizes this, a thought begins to form in the back of his head. Now what if, maybe, John discovered Sherlock had actually been keeping a diary in those handy little books? And suppose Sherlock had actually been contemplating death ever since Moriarty executed his spectacular reappearance in their lives? And suppose Sherlock had confessed he would die a happy man in the knowledge John would go on living in Baker Street?

Surely that counted as a sort of dying wish, didn't it? People were always adamant the last wish of the dead should be granted. In fact, they always seem to feel better for having gratified the whims of the departed. So surely it could be the solution to both lifting John's feelings a bit and transporting him back to Baker Street, thus enabling Sherlock to once more concentrate on the rounding up of Moriarty's network. He smiles. One of the books hasn't been written in yet. He bends the backs a few times, ruffling the pages to soil the pristine look. Then he sits down and starts writing.

_1st Jan. Dull._  
_2nd Jan. Row with the couple in the flat downstairs. They objected to me drilling holes in the floor. God, I really should move, it's hateful here. Haven't got the money though and won't go to Mycroft._  
_5th Jan. It's either a case or having some – now._  
_9th Jan. A case at last, and quite an interesting one actually._  
_10th Jan. Solved. Seeing as to the state I was in when Lestrade texted me he has kindly handed me a few cold cases._  
_11th Jan. Mrs. Hudson invited me for tea and biscuits. Couldn't decline, she's not a bad sort actually. Sat there for two hours, turned out she's looking for a new lodger come Feb. and she had thought of me. Told her if wishes were horses – . It is a great location, can't deny that and the flat would suit me down to the ground. She invited herself to tea here in Montague Street in two weeks time. She has this convincing attitude._  
_16th Jan. At Bart's today to do some tests for cold case number five. Molly nearly dropped a stack of files when she saw me. I honestly don't understand why she's so taken with me. I'm surely not exuding encouragement._  
_19th Jan. Bored._  
_22nd Jan. These suicides are intriguing. Of course Lestrade hasn't got a clue and is too stubborn to consult me. Maybe I shouldn't have yelled at him yesterday._  
_25th Jan. Off to Harrods to buy supplies for the Hudson tea party. The throngs of tourists too awful for words. Mrs. Hudson most versatile in her disapproval of my surroundings here at Montague. Couldn't do anything but fully agree with her. Started to chant the joys of Baker Street again and surely Mycroft could help with the rent. How does she know about him? Never mentioned him, god forbid. Then she suggested finding a flatmate. As if anyone would ever contemplate living with me for one moment. Apparently she considers me a sweet boy thus only proving that for all her slyness she doesn't know one whit about me._  
_29th Jan. Ran into Mike Stamford at Bart's today and mentioned I was looking for a flatmate. Lo and behold a few hours later he barges in with this army doctor, a dull fellow with the clues written all over him. However, he seemed quite unperturbed when I summed up my little list of quirks and didn't offer any protests when I deduced him. So we're probably going to be living together happily ever after at Baker Street. Oh well, once I've established myself at 221b maybe Mrs. Hudson will let me have the place for half the rent once the soldier has decided he actually doesn't want to flatshare with me. Texted Mycroft to send one of his minions as I decided I could as well move in straight away. Leave the dregs of Montague Street behind me._

Has he been too brutally honest just now? No, surely John will understand, besides, in a few entries he will be doing nothing but singing John’s praises. He starts writing again, filling page after page.

_2nd Apr. John was so brave. I confess, I'm so glad he's still alive. Now I know for sure I never want to live without him._

And again, almost a year later …

_13th Mar. I shouldn’t have said that but I wasn't myself. What have I done?_  
_17th Mar. Everything is well between us again. John Watson, I will probably never be able to tell you but you are the best of men and the greatest friend._  
_18th Mar. Maybe I should have written down – and the only person I've ever truly loved. Seeing as that is the actual truth._

It takes him hours before he reaches the end.

_10th Jun. Of course I won't admit it, not even to myself but Moriarty's visit has thoroughly shaken me. Sitting in John's chair, feeling the Union Jack pillow at my back, actually helped me in keeping a straight face during the interview. He doesn't seem interested in hurting John anymore, thank god, although I do suppose (hope?) my death will hurt John. Moriarty made it quite clear he is intent upon killing me. I will empty my head in 10 minutes and start thinking again. I must think, I will win. My only solace is the thought John will go on quietly living here once I’m dead. I must let that thought strengthen me and stop this maelstrom of negativity. I'm Sherlock Holmes, damn it …_

He glances at his watch. It's 4 am. At breakfast he will ask Mycroft to go and visit John and fabricate some story about how he has found these diaries among Sherlock's personal belongings and is sure this last one will offer some comfort to John. And then, tomorrow evening at the latest, Mycroft will receive a call from John asking to be transported back to Baker Street.

He stretches, yawns, undresses and crawls into bed, cradling the jumper in his arms. He's really looking forward to checking out these scrambled phones. But sleep first, he thinks. He needs to be fresh for the task that lies ahead.


End file.
